


Come Flying

by Morbane



Category: No Flying in the House - Betty Brock
Genre: Adventure, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Fae & Fairies, Female Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/pseuds/Morbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annabel and Beatrice meet again in their twenties. To Beatrice, now, Annabel seems far more worldly-wise - but she is not entirely free of otherworldly ties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Flying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hhertzof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhertzof/gifts).



In the autumn of 1974, Beatrice Cox, a young woman at work in the offices of the city council, took out her lunch - a lettuce and cheese sandwich - and pushed her chair a little back from her desk. From a similar paper bag, although with more curiosity than appetite, she took out a volume of poetry.

The book was one of four recently received from David, a college friend. She had promised to keep up correspondence with him as well as several others from the class of '74. Over the summer, she had read his letters with concern and amusement; they mainly spoke of romance dashed on the rocks, and had turned into hints that his own interest in her was more than friendly.

"Don't think to seduce me with poetry," she had written teasingly, two letters ago, when the hints had been more subtle. 

"I wouldn't dream of it," he had written back; "but it's high time someone seduced you to poetry." His major had been Literature, hers Geography; they had met in the stands of a basketball game. 

Now, her brow furrowed, Beatrice turned the pages of _A Cold Spring_ ; she read conscientiously, but a little distantly, wondering what it was that David specifically admired in the poet's work, or if he had chosen the book to call to something he saw in her.

If it were the latter, he had missed his guess. She did not experience any sense of recognition - until she came to a poem that reminded her of a much older friendship.

_The waves are running in verses this fine morning.  
Please come flying._

Beatrice closed her eyes, suddenly very far away. Her head was in the clouds, because that was where she imagined Annabel Vancourt to be, right at this moment; perhaps preparing to touch down in Boston, or just leaving Chicago. She'd only seen Annabel once since leaving for college, and had only learned from her mother of Annabel's air stewardess position, but Annabel was easy to imagine. She had always lent herself well to fancies.

All these college friends, Beatrice thought, and how many years has it been since I've written to Annabel?

She had no idea of Annabel's present address, but old Mrs. Vancourt would know.

When her colleagues returned to council meetings, minutes and memoranda, having enjoyed their own lunches, Beatrice's sandwich was still half-eaten, her book was propped open above her electric typewriter, where she had copied the poem out, and that copy lay in a sealed envelope at the side of her desk.

* * *

The next three weeks were exceptionally fruitful: they produced a return letter, another back again, a telephone call, and at last Annabel herself, striding down the pier where Beatrice stood waiting, in front of a little boat with an awning, shipped oars, and an outboard motor.

"Beatrice!" Annabel called, and Beatrice smiled. 

"Hello!" she called back. "You look well!"

"As fresh as the air this morning!" Annabel answered, also smiling brightly. 

"I hope you don't mind the early start," Beatrice said. "I was told the landing's easier at the lighthouse dock when the tide's right." It was not so early, of course, that any fishing boats remained in the marina.

"Not at all," Annabel said. "I flew in yesterday afternoon, to call on Grandmother in the evening. She doesn't like having morning visitors any more."

They were a yard apart now; Beatrice nodded in acknowledgement of this, and found herself amused at the angle she had to hold her head, looking back into Annabel's eyes. "You're so tall!" she blurted out.

"I had to take after my father at some point," Annabel answered easily, eyes crinkling with laughter. "I brought some things for a picnic," she added, lifting a duffel bag.

"Me too," Beatrice said. "Let's hope they match! But we'll make do." She waved Annabel towards the boat; Annabel obliged.

"This is a lovely idea," Annabel said as they stowed their things and Beatrice turned towards the rope securing the boat to the dock. "I never did go out to the lighthouse when I lived here."

"It wouldn't be the way you remembered it, if you had," Beatrice said. "They took the old lantern room out and put in a new beacon years ago - we would have been teenagers."

Annabel looked thoughtful; Beatrice wondered if she were wistful for the lost opportunity to see the lighthouse in its previous form.

There was a little silence, then Beatrice started the motor. To her relief, it gave her no trouble; she thought she got the boat out of the marina quite handily. This boat was hired, but she had been out on the water many of her summers home.

The lighthouse was only a mile and a half off shore, and the waters between were a slow zone. Beatrice had no reason to increase the throttle above a volume that would allow for talk.

She pointed up the coast towards the head that lay between this bay and the city, quizzing Annabel on the landmarks she remembered and identifying those that had changed in the last ten years. It was a clear day, without a cloud in the sky or haze in the air, and if the morning weather report had been true, it would stay that way into tomorrow.

A light breeze fretted at the women's hair, and a few waves slapped at their boat's hull; Beatrice saw Annabel bounce a little at one impact, smile, and adjust.

"Much like flying?" Beatrice teased.

"Not far off," Annabel said. "I'd say I've flown through thunderstorms that would feel like being out on the water in a typhoon - but then, I've never been out on the water in a typhoon!"

"Tell me all about it," Beatrice said.

* * *

By the time they stepped onto the island, the talk had turned to Beatrice again. She found herself telling Annabel about David. "I don't know about him," she said. "He's a thrill-seeker, and he thinks I'm the same way. I'm not. I like adventure. It's different."

The look on Annabel's face was awfully familiar - a concentrated frown at a puzzle that _would_ make sense if only Annabel thought it through enough.

"You used to love stories about Vikings and astronauts," Annabel said. "You liked to run places and climb things."

Beatrice smiled. "I want to see the world some day," she said. "I like my work, but I want to travel to sites of ancient history. I want to row up rivers and climb mountains. David thinks that means I like excitement, but his idea of excitement is danger for the sake of danger. He likes to get in trouble."

"A romantic," Annabel said dryly.

"I'm not a romantic," Beatrice said.

"Down to earth," Annabel offered instead.

"Oh, but there's so _much_ Earth," Beatrice said. "And you used to think you could fly." It was something of a non-sequitur, but she wanted to draw Annabel out; she sensed a reserve in her childhood friend.

"I did," Annabel said. "I grew out of it. Now I _do_ fly. It's different."

They laughed. They set up the picnic things underneath the lighthouse; it had the architecture of a moon lander, its lowest level only legs and space and stairs, the actual building seeming to begin above their heads. Annabel had brought a bottle of fancy tomato juice and tuna sandwiches. Beatrice had brought sweet grape juice and peaches and plums cut into quarters. After a couple of comic grimaces at the contrasts, they settled into a two-course meal.

"Getting grey out there," Annabel commented, looking at the northern aspect. The breeze had chilled.

"It wasn't supposed to," Beatrice said in dismay; but even as she looked, a sky that had suddenly grown overcast now grew darker and darker.

The two women looked at each other. Annabel's gaze went to the low ridge at the north-east side of the island.

"This is the best shelter," Beatrice said. "I've walked the length of this island before."

"Maybe if we go up the stairs, then," Annabel suggested. They packed up the picnic things and climbed up the stairs that led to the centre of the structure above them, stopping at a securely locked door. The first fat raindrops fell. Beatrice stared discontentedly at their splashes.

"An adventure, surely?" Annabel suggested.

The winds seemed to drive in from every direction; they pulled at the women's clothing, and soon the entire concrete floor below the lighthouse was wet. It was a vicious storm, and the blackening sky promised worse. The very stair shook. 

"The lighthouse is built to stand much worse than this," Beatrice said, whether to reassure Annabel or herself she was not sure.

Annabel drew a breath. "Look," she said grimly. Out at the mooring post, their boat was held by nothing at all - a wave jerked it a few yards out, and the next wave swept it further.

"Oh no!" Beatrice said. She started to get up; Annabel pressed her shoulder.

"No use," she said. It was now ten feet from land, and drawing away quickly. The distance _looked_ swimmable, but Beatrice knew Annabel was right.

"We just have to stay dry and warm," she said, half to herself. "I told Bob we were going out to the lighthouse; when the storm blows over, someone will come find us. Can't be too long until it blows over, do you think?" She was thinking about how it might feel to eke out leftover tuna sandwiches over a course of days.

Annabel didn't answer for a moment. Then she said, with a strangely angry tone, "I think it'll blow over quite soon."

She stood up - "Wait!" cried Beatrice, clinging to the picnic blanket Annabel had thrown off - and went down the steps. 

"Carradine!" Annabel called. "Carradine!"

Beatrice saw her friend's clothes begin to slick down under the onslaught of the rain. 

"Carradine!"

Annabel was staring out towards the south, and it was from that direction that a gull now winged in to land barely two yards from Annabel.

Not so strange, Beatrice thought, that a bird would seek shelter.

Then it spoke.

"You called me?" 

"I call to account a favour in the balance," Annabel said. "Banish this storm and return our boat."

"A very great favour," the seagull said - or so Beatrice thought. She could not think of any other explanation. The seagull's voice was male and croaky and sounded vaguely Midwestern. It was not Annabel's voice - though Beatrice dimly thought that since her mother was in the show business, Annabel might have picked up some tricks...

"I still call it," Annabel said.

"Very well," the seagull said, sounding pleased.

The rain stopped. 

The wind stopped. 

The clouds grew lighter and lighter with such a speed that Beatrice felt as though she herself grew lighter in the course of darkness drawing off from the world. Then the clouds faded away, leaving a grey-blue sky; they had vanished so quickly that it seemed the air still tossed with rain that had no source.

"The boat," Annabel said, and it came bobbing along to the dock, and the rope took on the will and muscle of a snake to tie itself around the end post.

"Thank you," Annabel said.

"Is that all?" said Carradine. "And for all that?"

"You know very well it is all," Annabel said. "You caused the storm to do me harm. I say I owe you nothing for abating it."

The gull spread his wings and cocked his head; though it was only a bird posturing in front of her, Beatrice winced.

"Shall I call others to judge this?" Annabel asked coldly.

"What others?" demanded the gull.

"I think not," Annabel said, as though he had not replied. "I think it might be the final judgement that goes against you, Carradine."

This seemed to mean something to the gull, who stepped placatingly sideways, wings tucked in again.

"I say I have the power to lay a command on you," Annabel continued. "This is my command. Leave me. Do not seek me out again. Make no plans for me, about me, or against me or my friends or kin. Banish me from your thoughts."

The gull creeled.

"Shall I lay a further command?" Annabel asked, stepping forward.

The gull did not answer. With a very loud beating of wings, he took flight, heading north, following the rain.

Beatrice came down the steps to stand by Annabel. "I think we may as well go now," Annabel said to her. "Everything else on the island is a bit wet for exploring."

"Folks on land might be worried about us,'" Beatrice agreed, shivering.

They got into the boat and cast off, heading to shore.

"What was that?" Beatrice asked.

"Who," said Annabel. "That was a fairy."

"A fairy," Beatrice repeated.

"Not a very nice one," Annabel said.

Beatric found that the words that came to her were not _nonsense_ , or _be serious_. They were, "And what does this have to do with you?"

Annabel said, "Do you remember when I was a child, and I believed I was a fairy?"

"Of course," Beatrice said. Except that, of course, the following summer, Annabel suddenly hadn't believed that any more.

"I was born half-fairy," Annabel explained, "but I wasn't supposed to be. My mother didn't have permission to marry and have children - not at all. Fairies are immortal, you know. Because of that, fairy law says that there must be a certain number of fairies in the world at all times. Only if a fairy dies are a fairy couple allowed to have children."

"Okay," said Beatrice dubiously.

"So when I was born, my grandfather the king had two choices. Either he could make me not a fairy, or he had to execute the fairy who had committed the most crimes in all of the Western Kingdom."

"So he made you not a fairy," Beatrice said.

"No," Annabel said, "he decreed that by the age of seven, I must choose to be a fairy or a mortal. I wasn't to know it, but that would mean his lowest subject's life or death." She grimaced. "That was Carradine."

"Oh," said Beatrice.

"And because it was my parents' doing, he sent them away," Annabel said. "He refused to influence my choice, but he decreed that if I didn't choose to be a mortal, they would be exiled forever."

Beatrice gasped. "So _you_ chose?"

"Yes, I did," Annabel said. "I just didn't know everything I was choosing."

"But it all worked out, didn't it?" Beatrice said. "You got your parents back," - she dimly remembered their homecoming, "and the king didn't execute Carradine."

"No," said Annabel, "but he knows that he would have died if I'd chosen differently, and he's resented me for it ever since."

"But -" Beatrice said.

Annabel shrugged.

"Fairies don't like debts," she explained, "the way they don't like imprecise numbers. Or rudeness."

Beatrice hadn't known any of these things, but she said "hm" as if she had.

"I still saved his life, in a way," Annabel said.

Beatrice was beginning to understand. "So he wanted to save your life," she said.

"But he didn't mind putting me in peril to do it," Annabel said, scowling. "Or you."

"Yes," Beatrice said. "What about me?"

They were a hundred yards out from the marina now, but she killed the motor and let them drift. The water was eerily calm, considering how recently it had been raging.

"What about you?" Annabel said - not harshly, only puzzled.

"Am I tied up in this?" Beatrice said. "Is there a new - favour to repay?"

"Oh, no," Annabel said. "It only matters if you are a fairy. The only fairies who bother to care about human matters are the king. And my mother."

She waved her hand at the marina. "You can forget all about this when we're back on land," she said, as if she were offering something.

"I suppose I might," Beatrice said candidly. It wasn't yet easy to believe in the events of the day - the events of only the hour before last. She had a feeling that if she did try to forget about them, they might fit into new boxes rather easily. A sudden storm. A boat that had only seemed untied.

Annabel had talked about fairies so often when they were children; Beatrice had never believed it then.

"And I might not," Beatrice concluded. She started the motor again and eased them toward the land.

A last great wave, straight from the harbour mouth, came rolling towards them; a piece of the weather not yet tidied away. It hit the side of the boat and lifted them up; for a moment, Beatrice felt lighter than air. They slammed back down again. Both women gasped.

"Was _that_ like flying?" Beatrice asked, and she knew that _Annabel_ knew she was referring to the weightless moment above the wave, and to an entirely different kind of flying than she had asked about before.

Annabel smiled. "Yes," she said. "It was."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very, very much to my betas Finch and inevitableentresol, who both came through beautifully in the very little time I gave them. Also, my apologies to Maine residents, with whose geography I took great liberties. This story is loosely anchored to Portland, but is as ambiguous as I found the canon to be.
> 
> The poem is 'Invitation to Miss Marianne Moore', by Elizabeth Bishop.


End file.
